


Table 12

by delibell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Diners, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-War, Romance, Waitress - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: You work as a waitress in one of the many fine diners in Brooklyn. One night a cute boy by the mane of James Barnes enters accompanied by his, presumably, girlfriend. Though his eyes are set directly at you.[don't own marvel or you. may actually make this a series]





	Table 12

A busy night. The diner’s door didn’t seem to shut as one couple walked in right after another with their heels clicking on the cool marble floor and their voices ringing all the way to the kitchen, which was behind a meek door behind a counter and where you currently found yourself frantically searching for more napkins. Your yellow uniform was now layered with dust at its edges and a spec of salsa sauce on the side, but you couldn’t really see it. At least you hoped. The stench of oil and the crisp sound of frying started to hurt your head and your eyes watered, a sigh of relief escaping your lips as your fingers finally grabbed a hold of two packs of clean white napkins. You hopped on your feet – with a free hand you hurriedly dusted off the dirt and redness from your knees, then fixing a few strands of loose hair behind your ear – and with a smile directed at another friendly waitress you pushed the kitchen’s door open and found yourself standing behind the counter.

The music is loud. It’s hot in here and so your skin coats with sweat, later prickling when the door to outside opens and a cold breeze rattles the diner. Mindless words of gossip briefly caress your earlobe before you can shut it out and you move to the counter, stacking the napkins accordingly and murmuring to the other waitress, which loves to whine and slack as so she is doing now, about how it is _her_ job to make sure the tables are accompanied with necessities, not yours. She ignores you however, rolls her eyes and pops the bright pink bubble gum between her teeth, her eyes staring off into the distance. Sleek neon lights dance on her face. You guess they dance on yours as well.

“Your table.” Is all she says and you look up as if startled, your eyes darting into the first free booth now accompanied by two people – figures, another couple. _First date, perhaps_? you wonder, but don’t linger on the thought, instead patting the pocket of your apron to find a note and pen. As you do so, you swiftly approach the two and before you can even click your pen you grin, “Hello and welcome,” you greet the two, flipping an empty page, “ _Couples Night_. Milkshakes on the house, the rest” you look up, “you’ll have to pay…” and you meet beautiful blue eyes, “ _for_.” You finish dryly.

The unfamiliar man grins at you, biting his bottom lip as his eyes follow up and down your curves before it settles on the small note attached to the shoulder strap of your dress – your name. The smile never leaves however, as when he tilts his head up to look you in the face it only seems to brighten and for a moment you entirely forget about his partner, a girl, who no doubt is glaring murderously at you. Your smile dies down cutely and you glance down, “What do ya say, doll? Chocolate?” His smooth voice seems to pierce the loud music and dims the laughter and overpowering chatter around you. He is clearly referring to his girl, but in your head you still form an answer ‘Chocolate here is made out of leftover Hershey’s and not the good kind. The cheap kind. I’d go with vanilla.’ Though, you don’t say a damn thing. The girl nods and her platinum curls bounce, almost with a sickly sweet smile she turns her head to you.

“Chocolate milkshakes for me and my dear James.” She says, stretching the end of his name and lowering her voice into a sultry one. She eyes him, you have no doubt about that, but whether he shares the same look you have no clue – quickly you scribble the order in your notebook: _table 12, choco milksh. for the hubby and witch._

“Will that be all?” You ask absentminded, not really minding their answer and so not hearing it either, “Call me if you need anything!” They nod and with one last smile you spin on your heel – your dress fluffs as you do – and you march down to the counter with your heels clicking in your ears.

It doesn’t take too long for you to find out more about this…James. The girl he is with, Sara, does not want to keep her voice down and share intimate secrets in private – perhaps she is here but to gloat and send wicked grins to all the single ladies that eye James. He seems distracted, though, as every time you pass their booth his eyes follow either your back or face, catching and searching for any detail he can find. If you didn’t know any better, you would say he is not even paying attention to his date, much too preoccupied to send you a wink any chance your gazes met. Then again, it is not your business and you should know better than to pry.

He has a motorcycle. The hour moves in a painfully slow pace and the end of your shift now looks unreachable – had only twenty minutes gone already? You peer into the clock on the wall, try to catch it ticking but it is as if it is afraid to move in your presence and so only when you pry away does it lazily tick forward. This interesting bit of information you had learned when you were cleaning up a nearby table, to the left of theirs, as Sara kept giggling of how ‘fun’ if was to ‘ride so fast!’. You draped the rag on the table and scrubbed quickly, though efficiently, your eyes wandering behind the window into the cold night. You saw a motorcycle parked next to a few beetles. You smiled.

Army. You nearly dropped their desert when in such sorrow Sara had announced of how she will miss him dearly and how she is willing to wait for him to come back if he even was to come back at all. Any pleasant daydreams – you had to admit, as shameful as it was, hearing about his motorcycle prompted you to wish you had a chance to roar the streets with him as well – were wiped clean with that one simple word. Never a wise decision to fall for a man, who is to leave. That was what your mother had told you and her words rang clearly as you set down Sara’s strawberry shortcake. How absurd – you frown. It shows on your  face. You don’t know this man. You hadn’t fallen for him at all.

Jane, Pam, Lisa, Audrey, Veronica, Betty, May… And the list went on and on and on. A playboy. You tick an eyebrow as you pour an elderly man some water from the glass pitcher – he frowns softly, thinking it was something he had said that annoyed you. Sara is spewing names like venom and clawing at her desert as if it would disappear if she is not to eat it in time. James remains quiet for the most of the rant, only offering a few offhand comments and chuckles when the memory of a certain girl arises in mind. Noting the old man’s worry you flash him a smile. He thanks you for the drink and with a nod you move back to the counter.

“Hey! _Waiter girl_!”

The friendly waitress, with a full tray in her hands, passes you, “Table 12, darling.”. Setting the pitcher you strut back to the table.

“We’re done here.” Sara has a sweet voice, you will admit to that much, but perhaps it is too sweet for your taste. “Check, please.”

You nod, lean and take the dishes, “Did you enjoy your meal?” You ask. Again, standard procedure, whether they give an answer or no will go unnoticed either way.

“More than I expected.” Your heart jumps in your chest and you look to the side – James eyes you thoughtfully with a small smile tilting the corners of his lips, “Wish I knew of this place sooner.”

“It’s a good thing there is no ‘ _too late’_ , then.” Is the only thing you say, a smile ringing in your voice, but you managed to control it on your face. Moving away again you only return with the bill, which he chivalrously pays and they are off, hand in hand, with one last look and wink sent your way you don’t see James return the same evening, nor the next.

/////

8:36 am. Your shift ends at 2:30 pm. A slow morning. You lean on the counter and whack your pen on your notepad mindlessly, almost to mimic the ticking of the clock. Waitresses shuffle around you. The friendly one, Sondra, writes down groceries the chef ordered to bring – nothing too ornate, just a few pounds of sugar and some spices. The other, Ann, waits tables with uncharacteristically enthusiasm. Sondra admitted in knowing the reason for her sudden joy, though since you shared no interest in finding out, she kept quiet. Truly a sweet girl, she is, with a round face and big round brown eyes that re-read every line of her clean handwriting carefully to make sure she left nothing out. What a slow morning.

The fresh scent of pancakes, bacon, grease and French fries whiff from the kitchen as the loose door splashes open when waiters pass. A new batch of black coffee stirs in the kettle by your side that boils and howls until lastly it shuts, signalling that the beverage is ready. The bell chimes. You hardly hear it, so focused on one particular corner of a red table that has a little ‘M’ carved on it. What does ‘M’ stand for? Why is it there? Did the neighborhood kids came to mark their territory, or were it drunken lovers on _Couple’s Night_? You are almost positive it was not there a week ago.

Sondra nudges you on the forearm softly as she passes to the kitchen, “Your table, sleeping beauty.” Ah, her and her most delicate nicknames. You truly do like her.

You straighten, gather your things and with a jump in your step move to the first lonesome table, now occupied by a man that sat leisurely, his head turned to stare out the window. Stopping, you click your pen, fix a smile and-

Your words die in your mouth as he turns to you, your heart spurring in your chest as heat caresses the surface of your cheek. James grins at you, a wolfish grin at that, as if daunting you to say your monotone introduction.

“…Hi.” Is the only word you manage to squeeze out however and if this is the reaction he wanted – he got it.

“Hi.” He replies. The conversation comes to s screeching halt as you think of nothing to say, only smile cutely at him. The moment passes. You clear your throat and click your pen again as if it would help you focus and it does.

“What can I get you?” You ask. _He is alone,_ your mind persists, _he is alone_ … Though, you quickly shush the squeaky voice in the back of your head – _so what if he is? He has many ladies to keep him company, no need to add myself to the equation._

“Oh, _uhm_ ,…” is he flustered? _Hardly_ , you deem and watch him fumble with the menu as he blankly reads it, “I haven’t really had a chance to look at it, yet, so…”

“ _Oh_ , well, then could I at least get you a cup of coffee?”

“Yes,” He smiles, “thank you.”

“Great!” You nod, “Just…call me if when you make up your mind.”

Black coffee with three ounces of sugar. Over the days his visits ceased to surprise you. In the mornings he would always order the same drink, though always a different meal and you were more than happy to oblige. Each morning you would set down a dark blue cup with boiling coffee, which fumes spiraled upwards and made dew collect on your chin and cupids bow, and move away to wait another table. He’s always thank you graciously for the extra ounce of sugar and Sondra never failed to tease you about how you left him smitten.

He likes to watch you work. Albeit, table 12 is his favorite, James had a knack of suddenly changing course just to surprise – whether it be taking a seat by the counter, where he would hop on the closest stool to you, rest his hand on his palm and let his eye trail the outline of your cute smile and proudly watch you blush at his compliments; or by tables that were not waited by you ( a foolish mistake to make on his part) and that led to his disappointment as he caught your pleased winks, for when you knew his divine attention was fixed on you, you made sure to be extra diligent in waiting boys, who were more bashful with their advances, just to see James tick. Either way, you would often catch him eyeing you as you worked: carefully  following the arch of your back all the way to the uniforms end  and the shameless show of your legs when you reached for something high up, your focused face when you were scrubbing muck off red plastic tables, the precise though relaxed sway of your hips to the rhythm of the radio as you mopped the floor, but he especially liked when you’d set his food and drink down – the perfect view of your bra strap, a new color each day, and the tasteful show of cleavage  made him grin the most.

He has a friend named Steve. Steve _this_ …Steve _that_ …Precious Steve. By now you knew more about Steve than of James, and you had never laid eyes on the first one. You became accustomed to James’s rating system – if the food was to his liking, he’d grin and say that Steve would love it. If it was not, he would complain that even the military would not treat him this badly. You’d laugh either way and promise to tell the chef, which either led him to laugh or mask panic. It was an amusing sight despite the outcome.

6:30pm. Your shifts on weekdays always end at 6:30 am., you told him. He smiled. He promised to drive you home next time.

It’s late now. You wave bye to Sondra an Ann by the counter and with tired smiles they wave back – by now you had all become close friends, despite your major differences, especially with Ann. Your fingers leave the cool metal of the diner’s door and you step into the evening, letting it shut behind you. Your hands hook around the strap of your bag. Your black dolly shoes click on the pavement and you smile at James – he sits patiently on his motorcycle, waiting for you to come over. You waste no time, not letting thoughts of backing out settle in your mind as before you know it you stand beside him.

“You have ketchup in your hair.” James says coyly, grinning. You raise a brow.

“Anywhere else?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Then don’t let it bother you too much.” You reply as he hands you a helmet. As you put it on your vision darkens and you can’t see a thing, but soon you are greeted by the last rays of sunlight through tinted glass. You hop on the motorcycle, feeling a chill creep up your leg. A dress was certainly not the most comfortable of things to wear in such situations. James puts on a helmet, his fingers working quickly to strap it on safely and he tilts his head to you, “Have you ever ridden one before?”

You gulp. “No.” You hope your voice does not portray the ounce of worry you felt.  You almost feel him smile.

“Well, simple rules. One… no jumping off. Two… don’t let go.”

You had seen a movies, you knew what he meant by _don’t let go_. You scoot closer, your chest hitting his back as your arms snake around his waist and lock. Your chin rests on his shoulder, the plastic of your helmets click softly, and you gulp again trying to control the light quiver of your hands. But it’s not of fear or worry. It’s of excitement. You smile. James kicks the support stand and the engine roars.

“Ready?”

“Take me home, Barnes.”

///

///

///  


Hot. It’s hot and you release a slow ragged breath to let some fumed oxygen enter your lungs freely. Colorful lights, bright and shinning, at first creating various shapes and sizes dim and dye a mellow blue and red as the band, first performing fast paced songs that no doubt led to your sudden tiresome state, pick a slower romantic pace. Many couples on the dance floor take a long needed rest; others with renewed enthusiasm pull their partners into a tight embrace and sway to the rhythm.

His hands feel hot and damp on your waist, but he smiles nonetheless and releases a low chuckle before briefly closing his eyes to enjoy the moment. You are positive you look like a mess – if he is any indication (his jacket had been long forgotten by your booth, now drowned in darkness, the edges of his dress shirt untucked from his pants and his hat lopsided and allowing batches of mahogany hair fall free), then you are no better. The dress feels stuffy and limits your breath, your dancing shoes are on their breaking point and you can sense that your perfect cat-eye is smudged at the sides. But when James opens his eyes again and sees alluring red lights dance across your face he shows such adoration that you forget about anything and everything that isn’t him.

The distance between you shortens, but whether is it yours or his doing you can’t tell, “Bucky.” He suddenly says his voice husky and out of breath, though a smile still curls on the corner of his lip. You raise a brow, “You can call me Bucky, doll.”

“Is it a special nickname?”

“I only allow Steve to call me that.”

You break into laughter, “Again with Steve! Tell me, _Bucky_ , when will I finally get to meet this infamous friend of yours?”

He pretends to think, his eyes wandering away from your own into the distance, “ _Never_.” He finally states with a lopsided grin, returning his gaze to you, “He’s too good of a man. You might fall in love with him instead.”

You grin, “James Buchanan Barnes,” he listens intently as his full names rolls off your tongue, “are you saying I’m in love with you?” you question coyly.

“ _Hoping_.” He fixes you. You blink. “I’m hoping, doll.” He leans in, fixed on your lips, “Can’t a man dream?”

“Dreams of me will soon be all you have left.” You say quietly. He chuckles.

“Then if they’re this sweet…I don’t mind.”

All becomes dark as you shut your eyes, your senses filling with his scent and your mind goes pleasantly numb. A moldering fire erupts in your abdomen when he kisses you, his fingers digging into your sides and gently pushing you closer. The kiss loses what-ever innocent grace it first intended to have and turns rougher, your lips rubbing against his in a frantic manner as if your life depended on it. His five ’o clock shadow rubs on the soft surface of your skin and it turns red. You grin. You feel him grin back.


End file.
